


This Never Should Have Happened

by oh_baby



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Dialogue, Gen, He's in the ER for a bit, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, IRL Fic, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Overdosing, Vomiting, so do with that what you will, tell me if there are tags i should add???, tommyinnit needs to be hit with the therapy mallet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 19:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30110871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_baby/pseuds/oh_baby
Summary: "He had counted them the night before."Tommy makes a minor miscalculation. (In his defense he wasn't thinking right.)aka a big wuh oh accident on the part of one Tommy Innit
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 9
Kudos: 365





	This Never Should Have Happened

**Author's Note:**

> if any cc's express discomfort with this kind of fic, i'll take it down

_ Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, no twenty-five.  _

_ 'Dammit,' he thinks, 'I thought I counted these right.'  _

_ He had counted them the night before. Counted to twenty-five more times than he'd like to admit, but here he is. One short no matter how many times he counts it.  _

_ Well, twenty-four is still a nice number. It's no perfect square, but it has many nice factors to make up for it. Twenty-four will have to do.  _

_ Tommy puts five of the capsules into his mouth and washes them down with water. They taste bad, like bile, and he nearly chokes on them. He's tempted to stop there. _

_ 'But you've already started, you might as well finish.' _

_ And though he hates to admit it, the little voice in his head is right.  _

_ The rest of the pills go down slower, in smaller groups. It leaves him feeling sick. _

_ Vaguely, he knows he has fucked up, but he pays the thought no mind as he walks out of his room.  _

_ "You ready to go?"  _

_ It will be fine, he can just have a low-energy hangout with Tubbo, and tomorrow he'll feel better.  _

_ Tomorrow, he can forget this ever happened. _

* * *

Tommy first notices what's happening when he zones back in for the third time in a row just to realize he's been staring at the same tweet for who knows how long. Each time he rereads it, it's like he's reading it for the first time. It takes a second to fit all the letters together in a way that makes sense.

His eyes wander around Tubbo's room and everything feels fake no matter how long he looks at it. 

Slowly, he zones out again, thinking about how fast his heart seems to be beating. 

_ ‘God, it feels so fast, what the fuck.’ _

"Tommy, you alright?" 

Tubbo is looking at him, head tilted and a worried look on his face. Something is wrong, very much so, but Tommy's going to avoid worrying Tubbo unless he has to.

It takes him a couple seconds longer than it should to respond, "Yeah, sorry. Spaced out." 

With a nod and an understanding smile, Tubbo returns to whatever he was looking at on his phone. 

Tommy keeps zoning out, no matter how hard he fights to stay focused. Every few seconds he realizes he's doing it again.  _ ‘This is real,’  _ he thinks,  _ ‘I am here. This is happening.’ _

This was not, however, what he wanted to happen when he took all that sleep aid earlier this morning. 

Everything feels heavy, and his heart feels too fast and too intense against his ribs. 

Tommy exits out of Twitter and pulls up google, he's fucked up but he needs to know how badly. 

Operating his phone is annoyingly difficult- especially considering the bandaids wrapped around three of his fingers. It feels like his fingers are falling onto the screen and he's just hoping they hit their marks. 

It takes three tries to type his query.

'what happens if i overdose on'

The words stare at him, and it's then he realizes that he actually has no idea what he took. Sleep aid, he knows it was sleep aid, but he can't remember the brand name no matter how hard he racks his brain. 

_ ‘I look at the stupid bottle every day, why can’t I fucking remember?’  _

'what happens if i overdose on sleep aid' is the only thing he can come up with that might give him something.

The search results are unhelpful, all he can find is the same generic warning that's on literally like  _ every  _ over-the-counter medicine. What a waste of time, energy, and focus he doesn't have at the moment.

_ 'All the warnings are the same, it's not like this is going to kill me, right?' _

But Tommy feels very bad right now, and the thought does very little to comfort him. 

His whole body feels so heavy, but not in a sleepy way. In a weak and helpless way that scares the hell out of him. 

"Tommy, are you sure you're alright?" 

Tubbo is looking at him again, he thinks it's in the same way as before but his face is so hard to read all of a sudden. 

"Yeah, of course…" 

Tommy reaches a shaky hand towards Tubbo, and the other boy offers his own hand in response. Heavily, Tommy drops his hand into Tubbo's, but he doesn't react the way Tommy thought he would. It's like his hand weighs nothing to the boy, even though he was struggling to hold it steady just a moment before. 

Hand still holding his, Tubbo moves closer to him. A hand is pressed gently to his forehead, Tubbo's free hand.

"You're a bit warm, I think you're sick." 

"M'not sick," Tommy mumbles, moving his mouth getting more difficult by the second, "I'm fine, big T." 

A quiet, disapproving hum is the only response he gets. Tubbo sits back down, the room goes quiet again. 

Tommy opens discord, thumb hovering over his DM with Wilbur. He taps it and carefully types in the message box.

Help, he needs help. He needs comfort, he needs an adult to tell him it will be okay.

'wilbur im real fucked right now'

He's too out of it to notice the mistype. 

A second away from sending it, he thinks better of it and deletes the text. His phone powers off with a soft click. 

No, he can't tell anyone. 

Part of his brain is screaming, he  _ has  _ to tell someone, but it would take too much effort to open his mouth. Besides, what would Tubbo do? It would be unfair of Tommy to worry Tubbo like that. 

And this was really his own fault, he has to deal with the consequences.

Very suddenly he feels sick, not sick like earlier when he'd made the dumb mistake of choking down so many pills, but in an 'I'm gonna throw up' kind of way. 

Tommy stands, his knees nearly buckling underneath him, and walks out of the room. Each step feels more and more like a shuffle, his ankles refusing to operate correctly. He can hear Tubbo trailing behind him.

"Tommy? Tommy where are you going?" 

No answer, he can't talk right now. 

Tommy makes it to the bathroom just in time to not puke his guts up directly onto the floor. 

The vomit tastes like watered-down bile, and even though he's eaten stuff today, all that comes up is an absurd amount of water. For a horrible ten seconds, he doesn't know when it's going to stop. But it does and he can breathe again.

_ 'That can't be good…' _

Tommy sinks ungracefully to his knees, and he feels a hand on his shoulder. When he looks over Tubbo is looking at him again. Same unreadable expression plastered over his face. 

"Tommy, you need to go home. You're sick." The boy's voice is so gentle, Tommy doesn't deserve it. 

If Tubbo knew what he'd done this morning, surely he'd yell. Surely he'd call Tommy stupid and selfish. Surely he wouldn't be this kind to him. 

His chest heaves as he tries to focus himself enough to reply, it's hard, the fakeness of his surroundings are so distracting, "Not sick, Toby." 

Silence, Tubbo is thinking, Tommy is trying his hardest to stay present.

"I just watched you projectile vomit, you  _ need _ to go home."

There is finality in his voice, it leaves no room for Tommy to argue. Tubbo helps him stand and leads him back to his bedroom. 

"Lie down," he motions to the bed, "you can sleep if you want." 

Tommy lies down, but he doesn't even think about closing his eyes. This is so far from what he wanted. 

_ 'What the fuck. What the actual fuck. Am I dying? No, I can't be dying. No, no, no, no… Can I? I couldn't have taken that much, could I?' _

Beside him, Tubbo makes a call. 

_ 'If I stop breathing, how long will it take for Tubbo to notice? If I start dying will I get help in time?' _

His mind is racing and he's fucking terrified. He doesn't know how much damage he's done. Most likely, he won't die, but what if? 

It's a very scary 'what if.'

He jokes about it every day, but he's not ready to die. Nowhere near it. 

And his heart still feels like it's going to hammer right through his ribcage. 

"Hello, Wilbur," Tubbo speaks softly, "So uh, Tommy's sick… I don't have any way of getting him home… my parents are out and so are his… Could you? … I don't want to bother you if it's  _ too  _ much trouble… Thanks. See you soon." 

Tubbo hangs up and puts his phone into his pocket. 

"Wil's coming to pick you up," he says, checking Tommy's temperature with the back of his hand, "Should be here in a bit." 

Tommy doesn't say anything, what can he say? He's not sick, he knows he isn't, but no one will believe him unless he tells them what's actually going on. 

As much as he doesn't want to die, Tommy can't stand the thought of Tubbo's reaction. It will probably be fine, right? 

He could cry right now, honestly. But he feels like his head is full of cotton and his eyes don't water up the way he knows they would any other time. Panic settles comfortably into his bones and doesn't break the surface of his skin, even though he wishes it would. It would be so much easier to confess if it did.

The ceiling above him looks fake in a way he can't quite put into words. Time in general feels fake right now. Like this is all some dream that he'll wake up from soon. 

And yet, every few seconds the thought comes back to him.

_ 'This is real. I am here. This is happening.'  _

_ 'This is real. I am here. This is happening.' _

_ 'This is real. I am here. This is happening.' _

* * *

Wilbur arrives and Tubbo helps him sit up and walks with him to the man's car. Tommy clings to Tubbo's arm, desperate for the stability. 

"Be careful with him, he threw up earlier." 

They say a few more words but Tommy doesn't catch anything. It's probably nothing important.

The conversation finishes and Wilbur takes over supporting Tommy, getting him settled in the passenger's seat before circling the car to the driver's side. Once in the car, Wilbur hands him a plastic bag.

"If you throw up again try to do it there." 

For a moment he considers saying that he isn't sick again, but he knows Wilbur won't believe him. Right now he doesn't feel like he's going to throw up again, but the nausea he felt earlier hit him so suddenly that he hangs onto the bag anyway.

As Wilbur starts to pull away from the house, Tommy grabs his arm. "Wait my bag. I need my bag." 

"It's in the back seat, Tubbo grabbed it."

Sure enough, when he looks back, his bag is tucked behind Wilbur's seat. 

_ 'Oh.' _

Again, he wants to complain about being taken home. He wants someone to stay by his side in case something happens. The mere thought of being left alone makes him feel so scared, but once again it stays buried deep and he doesn't feel it like he normally does. 

_ 'He won't believe unless you confess.  _

_ This is real. I am here. This is happening.'  _

Time passes in silence, Wilbur focuses on driving while Tommy tries to calm himself down. Everything still feels heavy and his heart,  _ god  _ his heart. 

When they get to his house, Wilbur is going to leave him alone. Entirely alone. And unlike with Tubbo, if he stops breathing or he starts to die, no one will know. No one will be coming for him.

Hours will pass until anyone even finds him.

Maybe he isn't dying and it's just the shit in his system making him paranoid. Or maybe his worries are entirely reasonable and not saying anything is going to kill him. He doesn't know. 

But if he tells them, it will sound  _ so  _ bad. It will sound like he was trying to kill himself, which was not the case at all. He just wanted to feel tired. 

Earlier Tubbo had commented on the bandaids on his fingers, and Tommy had blamed them on hangnails. The truth was Tommy had taken to worrying at them with his teeth, unsure if he was looking for blood or just to cause damage. 

If overdosing was his fix for the day, his dumb and reckless thing to do, and if he was tired because of it, he wouldn't have to settle for fucking up any more of his fingers.

When he'd set aside the twenty-five pills, it was an act of resignation, but also a safety net. The minute he thought about overdosing, he realized that he was going to do it eventually. With time he would give in to the impulse, no matter how long he stalled.

Twenty-five had felt like a safe number at the time, and by having a predetermined amount, he ensured that he wouldn't be tempted to skip over counting and just take the whole bottle. 

Look where that got him… 

Even to himself, the explanation sounds crazy, and he doesn't need anyone else prying into his dumb coping mechanisms. It's his business and his only. 

_ But also I don't want to die.  _

They're about five minutes from his house when Tommy decides he can't take it anymore. Can't take the panic, and would rather submit to the horrifying ordeal of being known than have his parents stumble upon his corpse when they get home. 

He decides he can't take that chance. 

"Wil?" 

The man looks at him before focusing on the road again, "Yeah?"

"Wilbur, I'm not sick." 

A deep sigh, "This isn't up for arguing, Toms."

"I'm serious, Wil," Tommy's hands are shaking, "I- I fucked up." 

"What?"

"I took a bunch of-" Fuck, here goes nothing, "… I took a bunch of sleep aid." 

Immediately, he regrets speaking. He wants to laugh and play it off as a joke, but the way Wilbur is looking at him makes him refrain from doing so. It would have been a very mean joke anyway. 

"Tommy- Tommy, you're fucking with me, right?"

No response, he just presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, like when he opens his eyes again it will all go away, it doesn't. Wilbur is still staring at him.

"I'm sorry." 

Out of the corner of his eye, Tommy can see how stiff Wilbur's posture has become. 

"Do you have the container or whatever? Do you know where it is?"

Tommy nods.

"Alright-  _ fuck-  _ Alright, when we get to your place you're going to grab it, and then I'm taking you to the ER." 

The silence in the car is tense, and Tommy would do just about anything to get out of it. He briefly considers opening the car door and tumbling out onto the road, but Wilbur would stop him. And even if he didn’t, Tommy would just injure himself and Wilbur would be able to stop and get him back into the car. There is no way to opt out of this one. So he stays put. 

They pull up to his house and Tommy heads inside. He still feels terrible, but he feels a lot more lucid than he had before throwing up. Not enough that he feels out of the woods though. 

The little container is on his desk right where he left it, for a moment he thinks about earlier. About sitting at his desk swallowing the little fix-its in groups of two or three. Why did he do that? How did any part of his brain manage to convince him that this was a good idea? 

He stands for a moment and looks at the name and then the warning label printed on the side. Reading- and comprehending- take a bit more effort than he would like, but he manages. He always manages. 

It's just the same warning he's read dozens of times on dozens of bottles just like this one. If it felt like this to take too much  _ why didn't they say anything?  _

If they had, he probably still would have done it. 

_ ‘Fuck.’  _

He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a sigh that does nothing to lessen the feeling in his chest. 

_ ‘Goddamnit,’  _ he thinks, ‘ _ why couldn't this have been a normal day. I just wanted a normal day.’ _

The handful of pills still left in the bottle rattle in his shaking hands. Briefly, he considers downing the rest of them, but he doesn’t have the time or willpower to do it. They tasted bitter in his mouth and he doesn’t want to taste it again. 

This was dumb. All of it was so dumb, if he had known twenty-five would do this, he would have taken less. 

But he still would have taken them, and that thought leads to a whole can of worms that he doesn't want to open right now.

Or ever, if he can help it. 

He returns to the car and drops heavily into the passenger seat. Wilbur's hands are curled tightly around the steering wheel and he seems angry. Beyond angry. Tommy wishes he could sit in the back, but the car is moving and it's too late to switch seats.

Wilbur doesn't say anything at first, but when he does-

"What the  _ fuck,  _ Tommy?"

It makes him flinch. 

The question is a good one, but Tommy can't come up with an answer. Nothing that would appease Wilbur, anyway. 

"...I-I'm sorry, Wil-"

_ ‘He sounds so angry. You've made him so angry.’ _

"What were you thinking? Huh?"

Truthfully, he wasn't. It wasn't until just after he did the deed that he thought about how big of a mistake it was. By then it was too late to do anything, he just let his parents drop him off at Tubbo's like nothing was wrong.

"I'm sorry, Wil. I'm so sorry." 

He knows deep down that Wilbur is stressed, and that Tommy is not the source of his anger, but he's still angry regardless. And the atmosphere of the car is so overwhelming. Wilbur's mood is stressing him out almost more than the possibility of him dying. Which is to say it's stressing him out big time. 

"How did your stream last night go? I didn't see the end of it."

Wilbur looks at him strangely and sighs.

"It went fine."

The response isn't anything special, and if he's being honest he  _ did  _ see the end of the stream, but it seems to calm the man down just a bit.

_ ‘This is good, if I can just keep him talking neither of us have to think about this.’ _

"Anything cool happen?"

"Nothing I can think of." 

Tommy does his best to make meaningless small talk.

* * *

After what feels like both forever and probably five minutes, they arrive at the hospital. Wilbur gets out of the car, grabbing Tommy's bag and slinging it over his shoulders.

By the time Tommy gets out of the car, Wilbur is already walking towards the building. 

_ ‘Too fast. He's walking too fast.’ _

Tommy grabs the back of one of his sleeves, partially for stability while walking so fast and partially for comfort. It's raining out, it's fucking cold, Tommy feels terrible and more than anything he wants to wake up and for all of this to have been a dream. 

_ ‘This has to be a dream. There’s no way this is real.’  _

In spite of himself, he wishes Wilbur would hold his hand the way one holds a child’s hand. He wants Wilbur to look at him and tell him it’s gonna be okay. But Wilbur doesn’t say a thing as they walk into the building. 

He goes through the motions of getting checked in. They ask him questions, they ask Wilbur a few, and when asked, he hands over the bottle. The experience is surreal and he just wants it to be over already. 

They sit him down in a wheelchair- he thinks it's unnecessary but is thankful he doesn't have to walk- and wheel him to a room. Everyone leaves while he changes into the hospital gown and socks they gave him. 

He's arguing with himself the whole time.

_ 'This is pointless. Why are they wasting so much attention on me?' _

_ 'If you didn't want this to happen, why did you do it? Who cares what you want, you've brought this on yourself.'  _

_ 'I just want this to be over.' _

_ 'It's never gonna be over.'  _

Tommy stares at the ceiling as people come back into the room. He climbs up onto the bed and lays still while two nurses connect him to a heart monitor and some other stuff that he doesn't know the name of. When he glances at the screen beside him, it says his heart rate is at 144 bpm.

"Your heart's going pretty fast there," the nurse says.

Tommy doesn't respond, what the fuck is supposed to say to that? Yeah, it's fast, it feels like it's going to break through his skin. Instead, he stares at his hands in his lap, they're shaking. Worse than he's ever seen them shake.

By the time they're done, he's got several wires crossing over his chest, which makes moving around rather annoying. 

He opens his mouth to complain, and then shuts it. This is his own doing. He made this bed and it would be rather childish of him to complain about lying in it, wouldn't it? 

They strap a weird sleeve over his arm, which he's pretty sure is used for checking blood pressure, and turn something on. The sleeve tightens around his arm, it hurts but he decides not to complain about it. After a few seconds, the machine loosens its grip on him, but they don't remove the sleeve. 

Wilbur sits by him the whole time, Tommy can't read the expression on his face. 

One of the nurses distracts him while the other draws a couple small vials of blood and hooks him up to an IV. He doesn't really hear what she says, he just goes through the motions. The bed is adjusted so he can sit up.

More questions, more answers. 

"How many pills did you take?"

"Twenty-four."

"Did you take these last night or-"

"This morning." 

Weird looks from everyone in the room. He wants to yell at them, but the nurse moves one with her questions and the opportunity disappears.

"Have you thrown up?"

"Yes."

"How many times?"

"Once." 

"Did you see any pills or anything in it?" 

"No."

"...Was this an accident?"

_ 'Ah, there it is.' _

That one makes him think for a moment.  _ Was _ this an accident? He hadn't meant to end up in the ER but had certainly taken them on purpose. The nurse prompts him again and he decides on saying that it wasn't. She asks if it was a suicide attempt and he almost laughs a bit when he says no. 

"We're going to keep you here for a few hours and monitor your vitals, if they improve and keep steady we'll release you around twelve o'clock." 

Tommy twists around to look at the clock above his head, that's about two hours and twenty minutes from now.

_ 'One hundred and forty minutes until I can pretend this never happened.'  _

He's told about the 'call nurse' button and after that, they leave him alone. 

_ 'Almost alone,'  _ he studies his hands, ignoring Wilbur, who has been staring at him the whole time.

Still, he's thankful for the company, if not the attention. 

"Tommy?"

"Hmm?" 

Wilbur sighs heavily, "I'm sorry." 

Tommy thanks that Wilbur is joking for a minute, but the man seems genuine and Tommy can't comprehend what he might be sorry for. 

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm sorry for yelling at you earlier. You put me on edge and I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Tommy worries a thumbnail between his teeth, "I kinda deserved it." 

Wilbur shifts closer to him, grabbing his shoulders and looking him in the eyes.

"You didn't. I should have known better." 

The amount of attention he's received today is both wonderful and very annoying. Wilbur's gaze is intense, though he probably doesn't mean for it to be, Tommy averts his eyes. Choosing to focus on some random infographic on the wall. 

"It's fine, Wilbur. Don't beat yourself up about it." 

"But it's not-"

"Wilby-"

They both fall silent at the nickname. Tommy rubs at his eyes. Wilbur withdraws back to his seat. 

He starts again, "I get it, this has probably been like- the  _ worst  _ way your day could have gone… I'm sorry." 

"What happened this morning?" 

It's a good question, one that Tommy has no idea how to answer. What had happened to cause this? What went wrong? Why does everything still feel like it's not real? 

Tommy shrugs and crosses his arm over his chest, hoping that pinning his hands to his sides will stop them from shaking. The way Wilbur looks at them- he looks so…  _ sad-  _ makes him want to run out of the room. But doing so would require unhooking himself from everything.

" _ Were  _ you trying to kill yourself?" 

Tommy grumbles, leaning back into the bed, "Obviously not, you prick."

"I wouldn't ask if it were obvious." 

"... I wasn't." Tommy briefly looks Wilbur in the eyes before fixing his gaze back on the ceiling, "Would have had a note or something. Would have taken the whole bottle.  _ Wouldn't  _ have gone to Tubbo's. That would be such a dick move, don't you think? Show up at your friend’s house just to die in their room." 

"What happened then?"

Wilbur is being so nice. Gentle like Tommy is made of glass. He's not, but it feels nice to be handled with care. As much as he hates to admit it.

"Suppose I just felt like it, didn't I?"

"Why?"

Tommy laughs quietly but stops when he sees the look on Wilbur's face. 

_ 'Go on, tell him. Just open your mouth.'  _

It takes him longer than he'd like to start talking. 

A sigh, another shaky hand through his hair, "I keep doing things, Wilbur, and I don't know why. I don't know why I even want to do it. But I don't know how to stop it anymore."

"What things?" Wilbur's voice is careful, and a bit clipped.

"I keep hurting myself." If he had any more tears left in him, he might have cried at that. 

"Oh, Tommy…" Wilbur sounds heartbroken, "I'm so sorry." 

His tone is genuine, and not in a pitying way. The man sitting next to him sounds like he actually  _ cares.  _ And that's how people are supposed to react, isn't it? They're supposed to comfort you. Not like his parents. Not like the way they look at him sometimes. Like he's sick. 

He can hear his mother calling him disturbing, he can hear his father asking him if he was going to stop carving himself. Such harsh words, such mean things to say about someone. About your child, who you're supposed to care for. 

But he also hears Wilbur scooting closer to the hospital bed. And that last one isn't so bad. In fact, it's rather nice. 

Wilbur sets a hand firmly on his shoulder, "You're gonna get through this, Tommy. I'll be here for you, and so will everyone else."

And he says it with such conviction that Tommy can't do anything but believe him. Despite promising to never hope like this again, he finds himself falling headfirst into it. And it doesn't hurt like he thought it would. 

Yeah, that last one isn't so bad. 

The blood pressure thing starts humming again and Tommy sighs as he feels it start to cut off his circulation again. Complaining about it is very tempting, but once again it would be childish of him to do so. 

Wilbur laughs quietly at the look on Tommy's face and for just a moment, it makes the situation a little more bearable. 

If he's going to be here for another hour, though, he might as well entertain himself.

"Wilbur, I need my phone."

"Why?"

"I wanna send everyone a selfie that says 'I lived, bitch.' It would be funny."

The man laughs at that. Not in the normal way, this laugh is more quiet and subdued, but it's nice to hear. 

Wilbur hands him his phone and it takes Tommy all of three seconds to realize that his hands are shaking far too much to be able to take any pictures. 

"This is stupid!" he groans, "I just need  _ one  _ picture."

"Hand me that." 

Wilbur takes the picture for him. Tommy sends it to the discord server. 

There are a few responses, a couple of questions about his health, a particularly amusing 'HOLY SHIT' from Tubbo. He will see later that someone asks if he is okay, and he will see Wilbur's response in his stead.

**TommyInnit** Today at 10:06

wilbur here 

tommy's fine, he can tell you about it later if he wants

But that will be later. For now, all there is to do is wait.

* * *

His vitals improve and hold steady, and they end up releasing him a half-hour earlier than they'd said. Tommy has never been more glad to leave a building in his life. 

Wilbur buys him lunch and asks him what he wants to do. 

"I want to go home and rest. Maybe call Tubbo."

The man nods, "Do you need me to stay?"

Tommy stops for a moment to think.  _ Really  _ think, not just brush himself off like he normally does.

He never wants to be anywhere  _ close  _ to today happening again. 

"I think I'll be okay, actually."

"You sure?"

"Promise."

"Alright. Are you gonna cancel your stream later?"

"Nope," Tommy says, popping the 'p.'

"Is that a good idea?"

"I just… need something normal today." 

The man hums in response, refocusing on the road before him. 

When they get back to his house, Wilbur does a bit of last-minute fussing over him before hugging him and leaving. They both know Tommy is pretending when he tells Wilbur to fuck off. 

His stream goes well, and even if it was still a bad day in the end, at the very least he knows it’s going to be okay. Somehow, someway. By god, he’s going to come through this swinging. 

**Author's Note:**

> what no i didn't experience this what make you think that


End file.
